


physical fatality

by gruumpy_cat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Community: HPFT, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, Romance, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Soulmates, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gruumpy_cat/pseuds/gruumpy_cat
Summary: we're just young and recklessif we wreck this,it's fine.
Relationships: Oliver Wood/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 41





	1. i can feel the flames on my skin

**Author's Note:**

> written for down-in-flames' tswift song challenge @HPFT  
>  ** _inspired by i did something bad by taylor swift_**  
>  _title taken from heaven in hiding by halsey, summary from young &reckless by charlotte lawrence_

What happens in The Serpent stays there, cloaked in darkness and shadows, half-truths and illicit touches never to be spoken of again. Hence the reason why The Serpent is the perfect place to hold fashion show after-parties, the only place in London, Muggle and Wizarding alike, where journalists are banned. Alexander Greengrass apparently thrives on secrecy, and it’s no wonder, from the stories I’ve heard about the family. His daughter, Daphne, booked me as an exclusive for her fashion line, the shiny new thing on the market reserved for the shadiest designer in the business.

I chuckle to myself as I sit at the bar, sipping straight vodka, turning on my stool slightly so I can observe the party. The club is overflowing with vaguely familiar faces, models I’ve done shoots with, designers I’ve had to turn down for Daphne, photographers who can never get enough of me, some of Daphne’s more notorious associates, and others who I don’t know. The entire interior is silver and emerald, with dark wood and leather. An occasional serpent here and there. I find it all highly fascinating, the loyalty to one’s House, even after leaving school. At Durmstrang, rivalry was an individual affair.

Most of the club is obscured by smoke and dancing shadows, the deep bass of the music enticing bodies into action, and the subtly infused mood enhancers in the scented candles floating in the air are quickly working their magic.

The dress I’m wearing is barely covering anything, one of Daphne’s most popular designs, enchanted to shimmer as I move, flattering my curves and the silver sparkles around my eyes, deeply contrasted by my dark hair. I am always on display, the eyes of most people drawn to me, the unfortunate side effect of being part Veela, but I had gotten used to it. You have to, or you don’t survive.

Daphne walks over, some men trailing her, ogling her body even though she could be their daughter, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or she’s very good at pretending, which is probably more likely. If there is anything to be said about Daphne Greengrass, it’s that she’s wily. She flashes them a brilliant smile before turning to me.

“Gentlemen, this is Freya Johansen, I’m sure you’ve seen her…” Daphne trails off, putting a dainty hand over my own as she makes the introductions. I should try to learn who they are, because if Daphne is introducing them, they must be wealthy, easily swayed by a pretty face, and very likely to invest in her label. And I’m her prized possession. Model. Same thing, really. And I’m usually very good at this game of pretend, of seducing men into giving me what I want, of giving them enough to be happy, but not enough that I would have to do something I didn’t want to do, and yet… I’m distracted.

Since the moment I turned from the bar I could feel the intensity of someone’s eyes on me. Between half-hearted flirting with the old men, I find myself scanning the rest of the bar until I lock eyes with a man who has the face and the body that’s making my heart beat faster.

He’s tall, muscular, his white dress shirt slightly rumpled in a way that’s obviously on purpose but it just looks accidentally stylish. He’s leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, seemingly uninterested in what his companions are saying. Instead, his dark eyes are roving all over my body, a slight smirk on his face when he notices me staring back at him. I don’t avert my eyes and he gives me a devilish grin as he takes a glass of something from the table and salutes me before draining the glass. My own glass is empty so I just continue staring at him, completely at a loss when Daphne nudges me, expecting a witty answer to something she was saying. The men don’t seem to mind the fact that I just stupidly laugh and flash them a smile. They’re too busy leering at me to be bothered by the fact that I’m mostly ignoring them.

Daphne continues talking to them, but I’ve had enough of the tediousness that comes with trying to keep up an appearance of being interested in whatever they’re saying. “Excuse me,” I mutter as I disentangle myself from the group, picking up my bag, and looking for a secluded enough corner in which I could order another drink in relative peace, at least from creepy old men. These parties are as much for business as they are for fun, but I’m in no mood for business. I’ve worked hard, and now it’s time to play harder. 

I sit at an unoccupied table, settling myself into a velvet sofa and smile again. With the emerald and silver decor of the club, I fit right in. Another vodka shot appears in front of me and I’m momentarily impressed by the magic of the place. Across from me, people are dancing to the beat of the music, bodies gyrating together, most of them on the brink of just fucking right there on the dance floor. It’s that kind of evening, helped along by the various potions and elixirs given out freely by one of the Greengrass lackeys. I play with a small vial, the blood-red liquid inside looking enticing.

“Skål,” a deep voice says as the guy who was checking me out sits down next to me, a bottle of Firewhisky in his hand, and he drinks straight from the bottle. I raise my eyebrows and down the shot, eyes locked with his. His face, somehow familiar but I can’t figure out from where, looks ruthless, as if he’s a warrior come out of a battle, dark stubble, almost black eyes and dark hair. Just my type.

“You apparently know who I am, but I don’t think I know who you are,” I say and he smirks. I would bet ten Galleons that _‘skål’_ is the only Norwegian he knows, but he used it well.

“I find that hard to believe,” he murmurs, voice low, but I can hear him well enough because he leans towards me, so close that I can smell the spicy scent of him.

“What, is it so hard to believe that someone doesn’t know your name? That’s very… Arrogant.”

He starts to laugh at that, and it’s a laugh that’s infectious, deep and booming and I can’t help myself so I start laughing with him.

“When you’re the best Keeper in Europe, the arrogance is earned,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly and offering me the bottle. I take it, his words playing in my mind and things click into place. I drink the Firewhisky and it spreads its warmth through me.

“You’re Oliver Wood.” The quintessential fuckboy. Changes girlfriends like socks. _Of course_. I was never meant to be attracted to someone normal. I can’t help myself. 

“The one and only. You really didn’t recognise me?” Wood asks, one eyebrow raised and I can’t quite tell if he’s teasing me or being serious. “And here I thought I’d never be able to be stealthy. Or you know, just generally inconspicuous. You, on the other hand…”

“What?” I say, crossing my legs and I notice how his eyes are immediately drawn by the motion.

He smirks. “Well, I don’t think anyone could not notice you. You’re too hot.”

I’m both pleased and surprised at his forwardness. It’s enjoyable, people not fucking around what they want. And I definitely want him, despite knowing better. “I know,” I respond and Wood grins. There is something indescribably attractive about his demeanour, and it’s more than just his looks. It’s as if there’s something magnetic about him, or maybe that’s just the effect he has on me.

Wood reaches out and takes my hand in his own, and the moment he touches me, it feels as if my skin is on fire. “One could say that answering _‘I know’_ to a compliment is also arrogant,” he drawls in his Scottish accent that I find particularly attractive. It goes well with his entire presence of an eagle circling its prey. He’s staring at me again and I can’t look away from the intensity of his almost predatory gaze. Despite his eyes twinkling with mischief, I know he’s trying to provoke me into a reaction.

“Fuck you,” I respond, nodding to the waiter for another shot. I’m not a huge fan of Firewhisky, and vodka is the drink I grew up with. Wood’s eyes flash in excitement and I have a feeling I’ve just played right into his hand. I mentally roll eyes at myself and my weakness for attractive, cocky, fuckboy Quidditch players which Wood seems to have awoken with nothing more than a look.

He shakes his head slightly and leans even closer, his stubble lightly scratching at my cheek as he presses his lips close to my ear, his hot breath scorching my skin. He is all fire. “I would much rather fuck you,” he whispers, staying close for a moment, drawing out the tension before leaning back when the waiter appears with another glass and an entire bottle of Vikingfjord. Apparently, the magic that made my glass appear doesn’t quite work with bottles. Or maybe the waiter just really wanted to serve me. Which doesn’t seem impossible.

“Does that line usually work?” I ask, finally dragging my eyes away from him and looking at the rest of the club, pretending I’m not as affected by his presence as I actually am. It’s strange, this feeling of attraction. I’m generally the one causing it. But there is something about Oliver Wood that makes my blood run hot.

He shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. “Aye, I’d say it’s working right now. _Usually_ , I don’t need to use lines.” Wood flashes me a grin, his face only made more handsome when he’s smiling. Devilish, but handsome.

Somehow, I can still feel his lingering touch on my hand, almost as if Wood marked me, my skin imprinted with his touch. The tension that’s been building up between us seems as if it’s on the brink of exploding, our bodies close, the fire quickly turning into an inferno, threatening to consume us both. But I’m far better at playing this game than he seems to give me credit for.

I smile, finishing my drink, and I get up, leaning down to pick up my bag, earning myself an appreciative gaze, Wood seemingly lost for words. Turning towards the crowd of people dancing, I see a familiar face, Yael, one of the models I did a couple of shoots with. She was also one of Daphne’s exclusives for today’s show, and she is both fucking fit _and_ devious. She’ll do for what I have in mind.

A banger by the Wicked Wands starts playing and Yael notices me looking at her. I don’t miss the way her eyes settle on Wood before she winks at me and continues dancing with some girls who I don’t recognise.

“I fucking love this song,” I say, still looking at Yael and not bothering to check whether Wood is listening. I know he is. Grabbing the vial I played with earlier from my bag, I lightly shake it and uncork it, finally turning back to look at Wood. Saluting him with the vial, I drain the blood-red potion. The effect is instantaneous, everything becoming bathed in a faint glow, my heart beating faster and this intense feeling of wanting to dance and touch and feeling on top of the world coursing through me and making everything more beautiful. Wood’s face is unreadable as he watches me, but I’m certain that underneath the seemingly cool exterior, his mind is filled with images of what else my mouth could do.

Swaying my hips, I slowly walk towards Yael, her flaming red hair making her stand out from the crowd as she dances, the curve of her body alluring in a skin-tight black dress, her back completely bare. I can feel the effect of the potion making me happier than I’ve felt in a long time, and it’s a familiar sort of happiness, I welcome it with open arms as I sidle up to Yael and start dancing with her. She smiles wide, biting her dark red lips as she puts her arms around my neck, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on the back of my neck.

For all the fire I’ve felt when Wood touched me, this feels like another game of pretend, the same old feeling of being there but not quite there, though Yael’s soft mouth and the feel of her tits pressed against me are hot, I don’t really care because I can feel his gaze on me. I throw my hair back, looking over my shoulder towards where Wood is sitting, stealing a glance at him. He notices and smirks, raising an eyebrow while playing with his half-empty glass. He knows we’re playing a game. And I’m going to up the stakes.

One hand around Yael’s waist, the other grabbing her by the neck and drawing her near, I crash my lips on hers, tangling my fingers in her hair, and I can feel her breathing quicken, her tongue licking my bottom lip before I softly bite her, eliciting a small moan before she kisses my neck.

My eyes are locked with Wood’s while she kisses me and I know I’ve won. He drains the Firewhisky, getting up and striding over, ignoring the girls trying to get his attention until he’s standing behind Yael and I let go of her, kissing her on the lips one last time. “Thanks,” I whisper in her ear and she gives me another wink, her fingers teasingly passing from my collarbone, over my tits and lower before she dances away, another girl already in her sights.

Wood and I are standing still in the middle of the crowd, just staring at each other, both of us seemingly frozen in time, as if there is nothing else in the world besides the two of us. I feel hot just from the look he gives me and before I can blink, he closes the distance between us, his arms on my hips, and yet, I can only look up at him, mesmerised. And even though he’s all fire, all action and boldness, still, it’s as if time stops while he slowly leans down, dragging out the tension deliberately, pushing us towards a storm, both our hearts beating like thunder, until it becomes almost unbearable, and finally, our lips touch and I’m consumed by the feel of him, his lips rough and pressing and I feel as if there’s an explosion happening in my brain. Wood grabs my hair, pulling me ever closer until there’s nothing between us except the clothes we wear. My hands are around his neck, the length of my body pressed against his while he kisses my neck and down, along my collarbone, hitting that sweet spot that makes me weak, and I can feel him getting hard. _I need more_.

I pull away slightly and lick my lips, unable to look away from him. Wood is smiling widely, the look on his face something I’ve never seen and I have a strange feeling that it’s reflecting my own expression.

It’s reckless, this game I started, but I can’t stop now. I can’t help myself, and I don’t want to.


	2. so light me up

My back hits the heavy wooden door of a room on one of the upper floors of The Serpent while Wood kisses my neck, simultaneously fumbling behind me, trying to grab the doorknob and actually open the door. 

At the rate we’re going, we’ll just end up fucking in the hallway, right here against the bloody door. His one hand is inching up beneath my dress, roughly grabbing my thigh and I let out a loud moan, which in turn makes Wood even more distracted and incapable of opening one damn door. For a Quidditch player, he gets easily distracted.

I push him away from me, rolling my eyes as I grab the knob, turn it, and I don’t have a chance to enter the room because Wood’s hands are all over me, grabbing my hips and suddenly my legs are around him, lips pressed together, tongues sliding against each other. And the door is wide open until Wood _finally_ kicks out with his leg and closes it with a loud _bang_.

There’s no stillness here in the darkness of the room, just the sound of the two of us groaning against each other while Wood carries me over to the bed and throws me down. I’m sprawled over for a second before I prop myself up on my elbows and take a moment to just watch him watching me. My dress is torn in places where he got rough but I don’t even care as I slide one of the straps down my shoulder, and let it fall down, all the while staring at Wood. His eyes are transfixed on my now bare tits, nipples hard and I see him smirking, that same predatory gaze which drew me to him back in his eyes.

The moment passes and he’s back on top of me, trailing a hand up my thigh, tearing down my knickers, the other around my neck, fingers tangled in my messy hair, drawing me closer and crashing his lips on mine. I am on fire when Wood finally rubs my clit, spreading the heat all over me. “Oh, fuck,” I curse and again he smirks against my mouth, enjoying what he’s doing to me.

“I intend to,” Wood murmurs against my neck, lightly tracing the curve of my breasts with his fingertips, his hot breath yet another thing that brings me closer to the edge.

I rip his shirt, the buttons flying everywhere, throw it somewhere behind us, and I can’t help but admire his muscled body before I grab hold of his belt, unbuckling it, rushing to get him naked, but Wood grabs my hands and stops me. He kisses my lips, trails kisses down my neck and collarbone until, finally, he sucks on my nipples and I feel like I’m in heaven, falling on top of the soft mattress, while he circles each nipple and his fingers rub dexterously, and then… Oh… His head is between my legs. “ _OH FUCK,_ ” I hiss out, and I can’t take it anymore, grabbing his hair, pushing him for more friction, wrapping my legs around him and he’s fucking perfect, his tongue making me see stars.

Inexplicably, he somehow just _knows_ what I need.

Wood lazily kisses the inside of my thighs, each kiss igniting a new fire on my skin, and I can feel the smug smirk on his face when he looks up and I can’t do anything but gasp and bite my lips. He moves higher, kissing my hip bone, trailing kisses up until he’s above me again, looking down into my eyes.

“Fuck you,” I say, my voice breaking slightly, because I’m both feeling thunderstruck and as if he’d just won this game. I involuntarily arch into him when he leans down and lightly bites my ear, kissing down my neck, our hips moving together.

“I think you just did,” he whispers between kisses, hot breath against my neck. I trail my nails along his back, not hard enough to leave marks but still, I feel him stiffen against me when I raise myself up, our bodies pressed close.

“Not quite,” I murmur as I wrap my legs around him and flip us. Now on top, I smirk down at Wood and the expression on his face as he stares at me. I roll my hips and lean down, dark hair falling around us like a curtain. I kiss his neck and reach down, stroking him slowly, enjoying the whispered _‘fuck’_ that passes his lips and the way he roughly grips my hips. I’m teasing him, going slow, dragging it out but Wood curses loudly and pushes me down onto him, filling me up and I bite his shoulder. It pushes him over the edge, thrusting into me hard and fast and we’re both cursing now, rocking against each other. He sucks on my nipple, rubbing my clit with one hand, holding me down with the other and I throw my head back, bracing myself against him, riding him furiously, and there’s not a coherent thought in my head. Nothing except how _fucking good_ this feels while I come hard, Wood following with another curse.

I fall down on the bed next to him, my breathing fast and shallow, heart beating fast, pure euphoria running through my veins. Turning on my side, I look at Wood, the smile on his face inexplicably familiar, the same smile he had when we first kissed down in the club. He brushes his fingers tenderly along my hipbone and I shudder, still way too horny from fucking him.

“Fuck,” I say, not really capable of forming a proper sentence. Wood doesn’t respond, not with words anyway. His kiss is slow and deep and when he tangles his fingers in my hair and pulls me closer, I can’t do anything but let him.

Wood leans down over the edge of the bed, rifling through the mess of clothes on the floor until he fishes out a lighter and a pack of Ashwinders, the red fire snake on the black cover glowing in the dark, flicking the lighter open and lighting the cigarette with practised ease. He inhales the spicy scented smoke deeply, the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth nonchalantly. I reach up, take it from his mouth and take a drag, the smoke twirling around us in silence.

It’s only now that I properly notice the lavish room we’ve taken, all cream coloured with dark ebony furniture, heavy curtains wide open and the huge windows overlooking the empty London street letting in the moonlight shining down on us. I briefly wonder if the people living across the street had seen us, but I find that I don’t really care. I’m still lost for words, mind swimming with images of us tangled together. The sex was quite literally mindblowing, and I can’t help the feeling of hopelessness that comes over me. The chemistry between us is almost unbearable because I know that this was a reckless mistake. It started out as an exciting game, a fun thing, someone to play around with, and I didn’t expect to feel this magnetic connection between us. It feels entirely _too good_.

I sit up and immediately sense the absence of Wood’s fiery touch. _This is bad_.

Looking down, I notice my dress on the floor, completely ruined and torn. It won’t be any use to me now and I’m lucky enough that Daphne probably won’t ask for it. Grabbing my bag from the nightstand, I thank my past self for thinking ahead, taking the only bag with an extension charm on it and packing a T-shirt and joggers, _just in case_.

Wood reaches for my arm before I can start putting on the clothes. He’s still burning. _Fuck_.

“Where are you going?” he asks in a low voice, looking genuinely confused.

I pull the T-shirt over my head, avoiding his eyes. “I’m going back down to get fucked up out of my mind.”

“But –”

“I’m not interested in being your… Flavour of the month,” I snap at him. “I’ve read all about it.” It’s not entirely untrue, though I don’t keep a habit of reading tabloids. And it did take me a little while to recognise him when we met.

Wood is frowning now, the cigarette long forgotten in the ashtray, almost completely burned away. Much like our night together. The ashes of something that could’ve been. If we were different people.

He sits up, crossing his arms above his legs and scoffing. “I thought you didn’t know who I am.”

“Maybe I lied.”

As he looks away from me, I already see him going cold at my words. I’ve hurt him. He nods and shakes his head in annoyance. “Aye, maybe you did.” He turns back towards me and I shiver from the intensity of his gaze. “And this was, what, just a good fuck? You’ll go back to flirting with fucking ancient creeps now? To fucking them?”

Hot rage engulfs me at his words and all I see is burning red before my eyes. I want to fucking punch him in the face, and my hands are forming tight fists, shaking with the rage I feel. It’s all-encompassing, barely controllable and I’m just shaking, trying desperately to breathe in, to calm down.

And already, I see, _I know_ , he’s regretting what he said, but now he’s hurt me, like I hurt him. And it fucking feels like someone stabbed me in the heart.

Pulling myself together, I quickly put on my joggers and grab the rest of my stuff in silence. I throw one last look at Oliver Wood before I leave and he looks despondent, once again reflecting my own feelings.

“Fuck you,” I say and slam the door behind me.

I furiously march down the stairs, make my way through the drunken and drugged up crowd in the club, suddenly feeling claustrophobic, as if I can’t breathe. Looking around me, I realise that I really can’t spend another minute inside and I stumble out through the door, the bouncer smoking just outside looking at me in mild surprise.

Sitting on top of the stairs leading down to the empty London street, I try to even out my breathing. It’s cold outside and I’ve left my coat inside The Serpent, but I’m used to much harsher winters so it doesn’t really bother me. The frigid February air enveloping me and penetrating right to my bones clears my head slightly, but it doesn’t do much for the images burned behind my eyelids. When I close my eyes, I can still see Wood going down on me. He’s imprinted in my brain, in my skin.

“You alright?” the bouncer gruffly asks, his voice raspy, shaking me out of my thoughts and I’m startled. For a moment, I had thought it was Wood, coming to apologise or just… Do something that would make this night not a total disaster. But it’s not, and I shake my head at the tall, dark-skinned man hovering above me.

“I’m… I’m fine, I guess,” I shrug, staring off into the distance. A light flickers on in one of the apartments of the building across the street. The man is still standing next to me, obviously worried. I briefly consider how bad I must look that a stranger would go out of his way to make sure I’m fine, but I’m at the point past caring.

“Can I bum one?” I ask, nodding to the cigarette he’s holding. He sits down next to me, taking a drag and rubbing his hands together before taking out a pack and holding it out for me. I take it, my hands shaking. Inside there’s only two left along with a small lighter. I light up one, take a deep drag and let out a puff of smoke.

“Rough night?” he mutters, and somehow, it doesn’t feel as if he’s prying. I lean against my knees, shaking off the ashes, and let out something that should’ve been a laugh but it came out as something between a laugh and a groan.

“You could say that,” I say, now full out shivering. I’m not wearing any underwear and the freezing cold is starting to get to me. I think back to my small, empty flat in Knockturn Alley, above a shop of dubious reputation, then to what I told Wood and I grimace. I really do want to get fucked up so I could forget the fire of Wood’s skin against mine.

I finish the cigarette, snuffing it out on the stone stairs, and nod to the bouncer. “Thanks.” He gives me a small smile and I make my way back in, calmer now.

The people at the bar give me strange looks, my bare feet and my decidedly not haute-couture attire raising eyebrows but soon enough they’re distracted by something else. I order two vodka shots, draining them in quick succession and turn around, searching for one of the Greengrass dealers. It doesn’t take me long to attract the attention of a handsome one, and he swiftly appears next to me.

“Your choice?” he asks, winking easily, his perfectly white teeth shining in the darkness.

“Surprise me.”

He lightly shakes two vials of a golden liquid before he gives them to me. “I think you’ll like this,” he says with a smile, and he leaves as quickly as he came, a guy waving him over to the group I saw Wood earlier with.

Without thinking about it, I down both vials in one go, the liquid hot on my tongue, tingling and searing but the pain passes rapidly. Nothing happens at first, but then I’m hit with the intense feeling of euphoria, almost as good as what I felt with Wood. The colours start merging and mixing and everything is both in slow motion and fast and I don’t know how that is possible, but I don’t care as I get swept away into the crowd, the music somehow forming shapes in my mind, the bright neon colours taking me up, my body moving to the beat of the deep bass. I lose myself then, free fall into a black hole of this new universe of ecstasy, mindlessly grinding against the people closest to me, and their touch is multiplied tenfold, the guy twirling me around, the girl kissing me on the lips, and with each beat, I fall deeper and deeper.

After what seems like a lifetime, I’m feeling spent, coming down from the high, and I almost fall to the floor, but I find myself sitting in one of the lounges, uncertain of how I got there. The club is half empty and I’m close to just crashing there. But, somehow, I manage to fish out my wand from the depths of my bag. I gulp down a glass of something bitter, massaging my temples. I need to focus for a minute, but as I hold my head in my hands, I notice that my bare feet are cut up from all the glass on the floor. I don’t feel the pain, but my vision blurs slightly. Taking a couple of deep breaths, I think of my flat, and I swish my wand, appearing a couple of seconds later in my living room.

I drop my bag to the floor, wand clatters to the fluffy carpet and I make my way towards my bedroom, shedding my clothes with each step I take.

And, finally, I crash onto the soft bed, exhausted. But before I can fall into a dreamless sleep, I catch sight of myself in the mirror across the bed.

Eyes flitting across my legs, thighs, hips, everywhere I look, there’s some mark that Wood left, a reminder of what we did. He’s imprinted himself on me, my body, my skin, my brain, and I don’t have the strength to forget.

_He is fucking burned into me._


	3. i'll keep leading you on

I’m awakened by the aggressively bright sun rays that invade my bedroom through the east-facing window. I open my eyes with some difficulty, the makeup from last night making my eyelashes stick together, and the moment I do manage it, I realise I have a pounding headache, as if there are needles puncturing my brain, over and over again.

I don’t particularly want to get up, but the incessant meowing coming from somewhere under the bed is extremely annoying. The stray cat that somehow manages to sneak into my flat every night and forces me to feed him before letting me get on with my life is at it again. I guess it’s somehow become my cat, though I don’t have a name for him. Just cat.

Groaning loudly, I try to stop the images of last night from flooding my brain, but it’s bloody useless. I think I will relive the fire that I felt with Wood for a long time and it makes me hate myself a little more than I already do.

Another loud meow forces me into action. I sit up, naked, and the mirror across the bed paints a disastrous picture. My hair is a wild mess, my make up is smudged, silver sparkles covering my cheekbones, and my body is bruised and sore all over. I can’t even look at the deep cuts on my feet. What the fuck was I on yesterday that I couldn’t even feel the pain of a thousand little cuts?

I gingerly wrap myself in a silky dark red robe and pad over to the kitchen, each careful step causing me more pain, the cat following behind me. He’s quite big and fluffy, the bright white fur shining in the sunlight. I’m not sure how he’s managed to become a stray with how beautiful he is, but then again, he’s certainly managed to find his way into a comfortable home again. Apparently, I have a weakness for handsome prats.

Waving my wand, I start to boil the water so I could brew myself a much-needed coffee, and open a can of tuna for the cat. He jumps up on the table, ignoring my half-hearted protests, and starts eating. Occasionally, he throws me a judging look, as if he knows what I’ve been up to, but I just stare off into nothingness, trying to remember if I have a hangover potion stashed somewhere.

The water boils over and I stir in a lot more coffee grounds than is good for me, mixing it slowly and putting it back on the stove. After a couple of moments, the foam rises and I turn off the flames, again mixing the foam a little before grabbing a big ceramic cup from the cupboard and pouring the black coffee inside.

The cat is finished with his meal and he follows me to the armchair by the window where I collapse and wrap myself up in a blanket that’s hanging over it, sipping the coffee. He settles himself on the windowsill and closes his eyes, ignoring me.

As I observe the mid-morning rush on Knockturn Alley, I hear the usual commotion downstairs. The owners of the shop often argue and sometimes there are curses flying, but I’ve gotten used to it. It’s better than having to deal with a roommate.

The coffee wakes me up, but my head is still pounding and a Summoning Charm hasn’t turned up the hangover potion that I was hoping for. _Fuck_. That means I will either have to go through the difficult process of actually making myself look at the very least not on the brink of death and venture outside and across the street to the Dryad’s Apothecary, mingling with people most likely looking to buy poison, dealing with the leering of most of them, or I could ask my neighbour and only be leered at by one person. I don’t even have to get dressed for that, so the choice is obvious.

I set my cup of coffee on the small table next to the armchair, hoping that the cat won’t suddenly discover his fondness for black coffee. I throw a wary look his way, but he keeps ignoring me so I take that as a good sign. Wrapping the red robe more tightly around myself and tying it together firmly, I slip on a pair of fluffy slippers and stuff my wand in a pocket as I open the door of my flat and approach the other side of the staircase landing.

Rhys, my neighbour, and as it turned out one afternoon when Daphne paid me a visit and the two of them met at the entrance of our building, a member of the Greengrass Syndicate, is not the worst neighbour you could ask for. If you don’t count the fact that his flat is a secret stash of illegal weapons, he’s perfectly nice. The fact that he likes looking at me is something that I’m used to and he’s handsome, so I don’t mind it as much as I would if he were your regular type of creep.

I knock on the black door with silver ornaments once, patiently waiting for all his wards to examine me. A tingling feeling passes through me as the last of his wards finishes the job and he opens the door with a raised eyebrow.

Rhys is tall, towering over me, and he has beautiful tattoos covering his body, at least the parts that I’ve seen. They’re all very intricate and he once told me that he does them himself.

He raises an eyebrow, the only visible scar on his face cutting through it, but it doesn’t make him any less handsome. “You look like shit.”

I shrug, not really taking it as an insult, just the truth. “I know. You have any hangover potion? I’ve run out.”

Rhys smirks as his eyes pass over my body and I have a feeling he knows I’m not wearing anything underneath the robe. I put my hands in my pockets and clutch my wand. “Anything for you,” he says, waving his wand and a small pouch comes zooming into his open hand. He fishes out a vial but doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he crosses his arms, his muscles prominent, and leans against the doorframe. “How about you agree on a date and I’ll give it to you?”

I roll my eyes at him. “How many times are you going to try that?” I ask.

“How many times are you going to ask me for a potion?” Rhys says, laughing at me, but I’m not in the mood for joking and when he notices the expression on my face he stops.

“Hey it’s your fault, the Veela thing throws me off every time I try to talk to you.”

“That’s a lie,” I mutter, knowing I’ve never used the Veela charm on him. It’s just a convenient excuse that people, _men_ , like to use. “Listen, my head is killing me so unless you want to have a dead body on your hands…” I trail off, realising that he probably already has a number of bodies on his hands, but Rhys just winks at me, handing over the vial.

“Thanks,” I say and slowly walk back to my own flat. That went better than I thought it would, but still, I don’t like to ask Rhys for favours, though it happens often enough that we’ve developed a tentative sort of friendship.

Sitting back down in the armchair, I drain the potion and immediately, I can feel the headache and nausea dissipating along with most of my pain. Rhys gave me the good stuff, so at least there’s that. Sometimes, my looks are an advantage.

I try my best to heal the cuts on my legs, though my wandwork isn’t perfect. Healing magic wasn’t something we focused on at Durmstrang, but it’s good enough that the cuts will heal completely in a day or two.

It’s only when I finish the coffee that I remember my mother is in town, giving a lecture on wizarding criminal law and another one on discrimination against non and part-human magical beings, and I’m supposed to have lunch with her. Fuck. I briefly consider making up some excuse, telling her I’m sick, but she’d only come here and then I’d have to listen to how she took time out of her _extremely_ busy schedule. Everyone wants a chance to meet with the famous lawyer and magical beings advocate, Astrid Johansen.

I sigh, crossing my legs, putting them up on the windowsill causing the cat to crack one eye open and shuffle away slightly. I glance at my wall clock, an ancient thing left over from the previous tenants, and I jump up when I see that it’s almost noon. _Fuck_.

I run into the shower, not even waiting until the hot water comes on, and quickly lather on the soap, scrubbing furiously, as if I could somehow wash Wood away. There’s no point in trying, but still, it takes the water turning scalding hot then freezing cold again before I decide it’s enough.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I walk to the bedroom, dripping water, my wet hair stuck to my neck. Absentmindedly, I wave my wand, drying and styling my hair, something I can do with my eyes closed, while I consider what to wear. I don’t have much time left, so I settle on a clean pair of black leather pants and a grey, oversized jumper. Grabbing a small bag and my coat, I’m halfway out the door before I realise that I’m still barefoot. Cursing, I summon socks and boots, hurriedly putting them on and slamming the door shut, speed walking down the stairs, out of the building and straight towards Horizont Alley and The Incendio, the poshest restaurant in wizarding London. The wind blows hard, and I have to wrap a scarf around my neck, drawing the hood of my coat over my head, but the wind blows it off and I don’t really have the time to stop and charm it to stay put. Sighing, I put my hands in my pockets, and hurry towards The Incendio.

The minimalist exterior of The Incendio is all black, the only splash of colour being the sign above the door — a bright red and orange flame. Stopping in front of the restaurant to check my reflection, I fix my hair, slightly messed up from the blowing wind, and open the door, entering the restaurant. The interior is dark and stylish, antique mixed with modern lines, and I notice my mother sitting at a window table before the _maître d'_ has a chance to greet me.

She’s wearing a long black dress and her white-gold hair stands out against the dark interior. She seems to shine brightly, though I know it’s just a trick of the light. When she sees me approaching the table she purses her lips, dramatically checking her watch. I sit down opposite her, sliding into the seat overlooking the entrance.

“You’re late,” mum says, nodding at a passing waiter and I know she’s already ordered for the both of us.

“Only two minutes,” I murmur, already regretting my decision to have lunch with her.

“It’s not like you’re doing anything worthwhile, I really don’t understand why basic punctuality is such an abstract concept.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. “Can we not have lunch without you going on a tirade against my job?”

Mum taps her foot in annoyance, narrowing her eyes. “Job?” she scoffs, waving her hand as if the notion is incredulous. “You call putting yourself on display, perpetuating and promoting harmful Veela stereotypes, de facto playing into the notion that all we are is our looks and all we are good for is to be objectified by _men_ … You call that a job?” she raises an eyebrow expectantly, crossing her arms, and I feel like I’m on a trial. “I can’t believe you’re my daughter. How can you be so careless of the centuries of abuse, of discrimination, of everything I’m fighting against –”

“Not everything needs to be a fucking battle, _mother_ ,” I sneer at her. “I would think I was free to choose to do a job I love and not be judged for it by someone who claims she wants –” I stop in the middle of a sentence because walking through the damn door is Oliver Wood, followed by a man I don’t recognise, though I vaguely remember him from The Serpent. The man is talking with the _maître d'_ while Wood looks around the restaurant, and, as if by some damnable mysterious force, our eyes lock, my heart skipping a beat.

I don’t hear my mother’s response because I’m too busy staring at Wood as he and the other man sit down at a nearby table. He seems equally thunderstruck, and I briefly wonder whether the same images of us tangled together that are flooding my brain right now are the ones he’s seeing.

“Freya, are you even listening?” mum snaps at me and I’m brought out of the weird daze.

“I was just… Can we not argue?” I ask, hoping she’ll drop her favourite subject, because if she doesn’t, we’re bound to stop speaking again. Both our tempers run hot. She starts saying something but the waiter appears with our food, grilled salmon with asparagus, a variation of her usual order, and she obviously doesn’t want to cause a scene in front of him.

“Fine,” she says after the waiter leaves and we start to eat in silence. But my mother has never been known to back down from a fight and I really should’ve thought better than to try and reason with her. “I would really like it if you could at least agree to –”

I don’t get to hear the rest of her sentence, because two eagle owls fly in through the owl door, screeching, and both of them zoom towards our part of the restaurant. One of them flies above our table, drops a letter in a dark green envelope in my lap, and leaves without waiting for a response. I take the envelope, but not before I notice that Wood has gotten what looks like a matching letter. I quickly tear up the parchment and read it in silence.

_Freya,_

_I need you to come to Berlin. I’ve booked a special shoot for Saturday for my new collection, with Felix Rath. Even though he’s ridiculously hard to book, he loved seeing you walk the show the other day and he’s asked specifically for you. I also have a surprise partner for you, I have no doubt you’ll love him, he’s just your type._

_Enclosed is your hotel information and a portkey. I’m already here and I’m expecting you no later than tomorrow._

_Daphne_

“Well, what is it?” mum asks, but I ignore her.

Instead, I look up from the letter and I’m once again met with a pair of dark eyes staring at me.

A shiver runs through me and Oliver Wood fucking _smirks_.


	4. i'm the powder, you're the fuse

It’s just my bad luck that Daphne decided that the perfect person for her new campaign would be bloody Oliver Wood. From the way he smirked at me at The Incendio, I have a feeling that he somehow schemed his way into this whole deal, but his reasons for doing so are still unclear to me. We haven’t exactly parted on good terms.

And even though I hate him for what he said, for what he suggested, and I hate myself for fucking him while knowing the type of person he is, I still can’t escape the way I feel when I close my eyes and see him going down on me, my thighs instinctively closing together, aching for friction. He has snaked his way into my brain, my life, and, as if by some strange fortune, the universe seems intent on pushing us towards one another.

The cat follows me around the flat while I pack a bag, occasionally meowing, as if he knows I’m leaving. When I’m finished packing he lazily climbs on top of my now closed bag and refuses to move, glaring at me. Damn cat.

“Come on,” I mutter, nodding towards the door but he stays still. I roll my eyes and lean down, picking him up. I walk up to Rhys’ flat for the second time in two days and knock, waiting again for his wards to check me and hoping he’s home.

Rhys opens the door shirtless and I catch sight of a fit blonde lounging on his sofa. She’s stunningly beautiful, awfully similar to Daphne but her face is blank, as if there’s nothing there. A joint dangles from her fingertips. Rhys smirks, murmurs something in Welsh to the woman, and pulls the door closed behind him, stepping out onto the landing.

“What’s up? Need another potion?”

Shaking my head, I push the cat into his arms, startling him. “I’m going to Berlin for a few days and you have to take care of the cat.”

“I _have_ to?” he asks, raising his scarred eyebrow.

I shrug. “It’s a communal cat. Thanks,” I say and start walking back to my own flat. Rhys just stands there, vaguely shocked, the cat settling into his arms and purring loudly.

“But –”

“Sorry, I’m running late!” I yell out and basically run into my flat, waving my wand and locking the door behind me.

I take out Daphne’s letter from the depths of my bag and turn over the green envelope, letting the skeleton key fall out. It’s a portkey and a hotel room key in one. I briefly wonder how Daphne managed to procure a portkey that’s not one of the Ministry mandated ones, and especially for another country, but I quickly decide it’s probably best not to think or know about it. I clutch both my bags tightly, cast a final look around the flat and take the key. When I touch it, the key starts to glow and immediately, I feel the unpleasant pull of the portkey.

Moments later, I find myself in Hexenheim, the wizarding district of Berlin, settled in Mitte, the Spree River running through it. The mostly overcast sky is not much different than the one I left behind in London, though the evening is distinctly colder. And even in the wizarding part of Berlin, the Fernsehturm, one of the city’s most prominent symbols, is visible.

I pull my coat more tightly around myself, taking in the sight. I’ve been in Hexenheim before, but there’s always something new happening, a new vendor or a street musician, a street food stall or some magical creature skulking on the cobbled streets. Currently, there is a group of teen wizards performing a rap song in front of a small crowd.

I don’t have much time to look around because across the street is Daphne, waving me over. Behind her, the ornate, dark sandstone facade of The Sehnsucht looms, numerous enchanted lights illuminating the building.

“Finally!” Daphne says, grabbing me by the arm and ushering me inside the hotel, as if she’d been waiting for ages, when in reality I’d sent her a letter earlier to tell her when I was coming. But, she’s never been particularly known for her patience.

“Why the rush?” I ask, adjusting my bag and following her to a magical elevator, ignoring the people staring at us in the lobby.

Daphne presses the up button and we wait. “Felix doesn’t have much time, he just squeezed us in before he goes off to Japan. And, well, your partner has a tricky schedule.” I know she’s waiting for me to ask who it is, and it would be strange not to. I don’t want her to know I’ve fucked Wood and accidentally got her letter at the same place as him.

“And who is he? You’re being very coy about this mystery person,” I say as we enter the gilded elevator, going up to the topmost floor.

Daphne smirks and hums, tapping her finger on my arm. “Oh, it’s just Oliver Wood, Europe’s most sought-after Quidditch player,” she says nonchalantly, as if it’s not a big deal. “I’m not sure you’ve met him, but he was at my party the day before yesterday. And you’ve definitely made an impression on people during the show, Felix practically begged me to let him do the photoshoot for the new lookbook, and Oliver… I don’t know how he even found out there was going to be a shoot, but his manager said they were _very_ interested in collaborating. Who would pass him up, really? Literally _everyone_ is crazy about Wood!” She winks at me with a huge grin and I have a feeling she definitely knows there’s something strange about all this. Daphne isn’t stupid. But neither am I, so I continue pretending I’m as puzzled by Wood’s sudden interest as she is.

The room she’s gotten for me is extravagant, the plush grey carpet offset by the tall panelled walls, painted in fragrant, soft green, reminiscent of an enchanted forest. The effect is only highlighted by the designer lamps, their branch-like stands of dark wood, the soft glow they emit bathes the room in dim, sultry light. That’s one of the perks of working for Daphne. She’s generous, as long as you do as she says.

Daphne throws a look at her wristwatch while I dump my stuff and look out of the window at the bustling Hexenheim. It’s a strange mismatch of preserved medieval buildings, Art Nouveau architecture, and the harsh-looking, modernist concrete buildings, places where the Muggle and Wizarding world fuse into something quite unique to Berlin and the city’s culture.

“We should go,” Daphne says, checking something in a small black book. “Oliver is already at Felix’s studio, the thing is in one of those old power plants, near Morgenstern, where I’m taking you all out after the shoot. My treat,” she says with a wicked grin and I know why. Morgenstern is a nightclub, famous for its superb music, drugs running freely, the darkrooms available to all, and a place ridiculously hard to get into. But, of course, for all I know the club is owned by her father. She takes my arm and apparates us to the studio.

* * *

There’s an entire army of Daphne’s stylists surrounding me, waving their wands, muttering spells, apparently making me look even more beautiful than I already am (their words). I met Felix briefly when Daphne and I apparated to his studio, a handsome tall man with fashionable hair slicked back, streaked with grey, his face covered in tattoos. You would have a hard time telling whether he was a photographer or a bouncer. Wood was nowhere to be seen, presumably going through the same process as I.

Daphne hovers on the edge of my vision, talking with one of the stylists, then pointing her wand at something and a white clothes cover appears before her. She unzips it and turns towards me, obscuring it from view, licking her lips as she looks me over with a critical eye. Daphne nods to the stylists, sending them away and it’s just the two of us left. I stand up from the comfortable leather chair and walk over, feeling slightly cold in just a silky robe and slippers.

Displayed inside the cover is not something one could call clothes. I raise an eyebrow at Daphne. “Lingerie?” She shrugs and laughs.

“Sex sells, darling. And you get to keep it all. Now get dressed and get into the studio, it’s just through the door over there.”

Daphne leaves me alone in the cold room and I take off my robe, standing naked in front of all the mirrors, considering the lingerie before me. I carefully put on the black thong with a transparent mesh, charmed so the lace design moves, slowly, mesmerisingly so, revealing and obscuring the skin underneath. The bra matches it and when I look at myself in the mirror, it’s as if I’m wearing lacy snakes and roses intertwining with one another around my breasts and hips, somehow revealing more than they’re obscuring. The look is paired with dark thigh highs and staggeringly tall black heels. 

With a smirk, I wrap the previously discarded robe around me and open the door Daphne pointed out. A low beat is playing and the people are talking amongst themselves inside the stark studio, all exposed concrete walls and black steel, but when I enter, they stop talking and I can feel all of their eyes on me. The only ones I’m interested in are looking straight into my own, Wood’s gaze igniting a fire inside me. He’s wearing one of Daphne’s fitted black suits, looking sharp and fit as hell. But, I try to keep my cool and simply raise a challenging eyebrow at him.

“Bloody hell,” he says and Daphne laughs, waving me over. She’s standing with Felix and Wood, a little apart from the rest of the crew. Felix seems to be at a loss for words when I come over.

“Mr Rath,” I say, shaking his hand, and the man shakes himself out of a daze with a grin.

“I’m sorry, but you’re quite… Stunning.” 

Daphne’s smile grows wider at his words and she bends her head slightly, looking from me to Wood. “Freya, this is Oliver Wood.”

I don’t offer to shake his hand, and he merely gives me a wolfish grin before muttering something to Daphne that I don’t hear. Felix lets the stylists go, waving them off, turning towards us. He says a couple of spells in German, the music getting slightly louder, the rhythm somehow oozing sex, and the lights get dimmer, except for the place in the studio where Felix wants us. It’s a familiar setting, others telling me what to do, and both Wood and I follow his direction, Daphne quietly observing from the shadows.

The first couple of photos are standard, the two of us posing together, though not touching, but then, somehow suddenly even though I’ve stood there and listened to Felix give the word, one of Wood’s hands is brushing my ribs, the other around my neck and it feels as if the flames are licking my skin. As his fingers press against the soft flesh of my neck, thumb rubbing against my artery, Wood leans down, his lips close to my ear, his hand trailing down as Felix takes what seem to be thousands of photos, my legs almost obscenely spread out, and when I feel his calloused fingers slipping just under the lace waistband, my breath catches in my throat, his fingers now brushing over my crimson red lips as we stare off into the camera.

And I know that _this_ is the picture Daphne wants of the two of us, suggestive, fuckable, the clothes almost secondary to her brand of _‘fuck, yes’_.

Wood’s grip tightens slightly around my throat and it only makes me feel more turned on. “You’re playing with me,” I whisper, keeping my face neutral.

“Of course I am,” he murmurs, “but you fucking love it, don’t you? I'm bad, but you’re _worse_.”

I want to move closer, to bite his attractive lips curled into a smirk, to taste the iron of blood, leave a mark on him. But Felix moves us around once more, the moment passes and I fade again into impassive professionality, left unsatisfied, my body burning for _more_. More of Wood, more of this incredible fire.

After hours of changing poses, of Felix and Daphne scrutinising us, all of us drinking champagne that Daphne brought, they finally decide that we’re done. I walk back to the room where I changed, gathering my stuff, ready to slip away, to find some German witch or wizard to fuck, to get it out of my system and get away from the damn fuckboy, but Daphne enters the room with a raised eyebrow. “I told you we’re going out,” she says, twirling her wand and summoning another clothes cover. “Finn is waiting for us at Morgenstern.”

The clothes cover opens with another wave of her wand and she levitates the short black dress towards me. “Put it on,” Daphne says, eyeing me with undeniable hunger. The shoot and the drinks obviously had an effect on her. “It’s a gift.”

I smirk, never one to refuse gifts, and put on the dress, skin-tight and an obvious pair to the lingerie I modelled, parts of it lace, snakes and floral designs enveloping my body. Daphne licks her lips.

* * *

Morgenstern is a club situated close to Felix’s studio, in one of the abandoned industrial buildings. Entering through the door is like being assaulted by loud electronic music seemingly, magically, coming from everywhere at once. The flashing lights play over the crowd bathing the vast dance floor in neon. The dancing crowd is crazy, cranked up, and there are numerous dark nooks where people, uncaring of who might see them, hook up, and more.

The moment we entered, Finn, Daphne’s husband, found us and brought us to a standing table, next to a partially secluded wall, the table already overflowing with drinks and vials. The two of them have taken Felix out on the dance floor and it doesn’t look like they plan on stopping before the morning.

I’m sipping on absinthe, sweetened with sugar, and unsuccessfully trying to ignore the pair of dark eyes looking straight at me. “You planned this,” I say, slightly raising my voice, but somehow, there seems to be no need. Wood is suddenly close to me, and I take a step back, hitting the wall behind me. He puts his arms on the sides of me, pinning me against the wall with a smirk.

“I like a challenge,” Wood whispers in my ear, his leg parting my thighs and I hate the way I arch into him, trying to get some release, rubbing myself against the muscled leg, my dress hitching up, as if it ever covered anything. His smirk widens.

“Fuck you,” I moan, suddenly breathless when his hand grabs my thigh roughly, lips on my neck, body pressed against me. We’re touching in the darkness of the club, people watching us, but I don’t fucking care when Wood’s fingers rip off the thong, the ripped piece of designer fabric falling on the floor as Wood’s fingers slip inside me and rub my clit, flames once again spreading through me. I fumble with his belt, his tongue circling one of my hard nipples, the dress brushed aside like it didn’t exist, and I can feel his hard cock straining against his trousers.

He bites down on my shoulder when I finally touch him, sliding my hand over his cock quickly, the other one gripping his dark hair tightly, but he’s already grabbing my hips, lifting me up and furiously pushing me against the wall, thrusting into me, and I let out a loud groan as he fills me up, moving rough and fast, my hand slipping down to rub my clit.

We’re panting against each other, Wood kissing me, lips rough, the dark stubble scratching at my cheek, and his grip tightens against me as he goes faster, fingers bruising, leaving red marks on my skin, and inexplicably, we’re in sync, breaths mixing together, hearts beating in the same rhythm, and when Wood yells out a strangled _‘fuck’_ , I can feel it echoing inside me, the fire uncoiling as I come hard.

Wood is still pinning me against the wall, head leaning against my shoulder, his fiery breath igniting my already inflamed skin as the music blares around us, the darkness protecting most of what happened from curious looks, and I don’t think I can stand.

After a minute, he lets me back down, forehead resting against mine as we look at each other, both of us lost in the burning red _madness_ between us.


	5. you got me all fucked up

I’m back at the Morgenstern, the deep beat of the bass rhythmically thrumming through my body as I stand alone propped up against a table, fingers playing with a small vial filled with a fine silver powder, the luminescent drug drawing my eyes, reflecting the neon lights in the glowing particles. It is dangerously easy, drinking another shot of vodka, eyeing the crowd around me, losing myself in the darkness and the all-encompassing need to get out of my fucking head. Tapping my fingers on the table, I close my eyes, letting my body sway to the beat.

I don’t know why I came back, the memories of the previous night flashing behind my eyelids, but I do know that I’m lying to myself. I’m hoping he’ll be here.  _ Fuck _ . It must be a curse to want someone so badly.

I’m fucking addicted to the feeling of whatever the fuck we are and it’s driving me mad.

“I knew you’d show up,” his voice whispers in my ear, the stubble scratching at my cheek, my breath hitching in my throat as I open my eyes to stare at Wood. He has found me, as if we are two magnets, the king and the queen of undisclosed desires, attracting each other through space and time. Right up until we crash and burn.

There’s the usual cigarette dangling immobile from Wood's mouth, his image of coolness a fake facade and I can see the cracks in it. The slight quirk of his lips, the way he’s practically devouring me with his eyes, the tension in his broad shoulders as he puts an arm around my waist and the way he audibly groans when I bend my body and press myself against him, there is no mistaking the undeniable desire he feels. He might be playing with me, but the game he plays is a dangerous one. 

I smirk at him, clenching my fingers around the drug while I drink more, trying to get that rush of happiness inside me, the feeling of being alive. “Keep up, fuckboy,” I murmur, deftly sliding away from him, putting some distance between us and still, when the neon flashes across his face, he’s grinning, one eyebrow raised as he downs the glass of Firewhisky he brought with him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Wood says, fingers lightly tracing a pattern on my bare back and I laugh at his unabashedness.

“Didn’t you just get here? I think I’ll stay,” I say, uncorking the vial I’m holding, taking out another one from my bag and setting it on the table. There’s a small obsidian plate on the table and I spill out the silver powder, Moonfrost, dividing it up into two lines while Wood watches me. I lean down, rolling a Muggle bill between my fingers and with a look into Wood’s eyes, I inhale deeply and let the sweet rush go straight to my brain. And then the club, bottles, glasses and vials, Wood’s skin, my skin, everything is sparkling around me in that one moment of the perfect high, time slowing down while I smile, head thrown back as I dance away from Wood, lose myself in the smoke and neon coloured shadows, the bitter green and yellow bathing me in their acidic tones, fading into hues of bright pink and blue.

I feel him right behind me, following my every move and I don’t even have to look at Wood to know the expression on his face as I dance, moving my body, grinding against some guy, his arms all over me while Wood watches. There’s another rush of euphoria to my head and I open my eyes only to be met with the shimmery glow of Wood’s dark, inky black eyes staring into mine, pupils dilated and mesmerising. A devilishly wicked smirk plays on his lips as he closes the space between us, everyone else at the club fading into the crepuscule nothingness when he wraps an arm around me, the scent of him achingly familiar and terrifyingly electrifying.

We’re dancing around each other, the music buzzing in my ears as everything slows down, time, space, our bodies like two flames, slick against each other, lips brushing against burning skin, but somehow out of reach, never meeting and I laugh, my hands in the air as I spin round and round, my mind momentarily dizzy and finally, Wood comes back into focus, leaning down and trailing kisses up my neck, leaving bright red marks on my pale skin.

“You fucking drive me insane,” he murmurs, tangling his fingers in my hair, the back of my neck inflamed with the feel of him when he pulls at my hair, angling me closer and there’s a thrill up my spine at his roughness. “Stop teasing me,” Wood whispers, pulling my body flush with his, fingers digging deep into my skin.

I raise an eyebrow at Wood, challenge twinkling in my eyes as I try not to get completely lost in him. “Make me,” I say, teeth grazing my bottom lip and that seems to be enough for him to lose control. Wood crashes his lips on mine and the taste of him is like another rush of a drug to my brain, coursing through my body and making me come alive.

And then I can’t tell where he ends and I begin, this dance between us seemingly an infinite game of who has the upper hand, but when I bite down on his neck, Wood finally loses control, hungrily kissing me back, pushing me against the wall, his breath hot and heavy against my skin when he stops for a moment, staring at me, the position eerily similar to the one from the night before. I take a shot of Wildfire from the table, Wood matching me and in that moment I realise that I’m falling into a trap of my own creation, but the fall is sweet and addictive, the trap desperately haunting.

I tug at his belt and he follows me through the crowded club, through neon smoke, grinning like a devil when we stumble into the bathroom at the back, thankfully empty, and he barely has the time to turn the lock before we’re kissing again, my teeth around his lips, his hands hitching up my dress roughly, fingers already slick.

Scratching at his back makes Wood groan and I smirk up at him, rolling my hips slightly before he turns me over and we’re looking at our reflection in the cracked mirror, the image oddly distorted. Just like this unspoken madness between us.

Time slows again as Wood’s hand travels from my collarbone to the straps of my dress, and whether from the drugs or some extraordinary magic, I see golden sparks trailing his fingers while he slides the dress down, my nipples hard and a breath hitches in my throat when he pulls at my hair, my back arching and tits pressed against the cold cracked mirror, his hand travelling lower and he’s recreating the obscene image from the photo shoot, only this time, I can feel the sweet release building up inside me, pulse racing as he plays with my clit, his other hand now around my neck, my sweaty hair falling into my eyes.

There is fire in my blood and I need more friction, bending against him until finally, he thrusts into me, the mirror cracking even more and we’re both groaning loudly, his movements harder and faster, almost furiously so, my body bruising but I don’t feel any pain when his grip tightens around my neck, his lips igniting an inferno on my skin, and I come, hard, heavy, my scream drowned out by the angry music, Wood following with a hissed out curse and clutching me tightly, watching me in the now foggy mirror which shatters into a million sparkling pieces before us.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against my skin, still holding me, my palms bleeding from a couple of small cuts, the blood dripping on the broken glass.

It is almost entrancing, watching the crimson spread over the glass, a poetic metaphor of our wickedly twisted physical fatality.

Avoiding Wood’s eyes, I fix my dress in silence, leaving bloody handprints on the expensive material, pulling the straps over my shoulders as Wood stands behind me, buckling his belt. “We…,” I start but Wood closes the space between us and kisses me before I can say anything, the taste of him spicy and burning.

“We’re doing more of these,” he says, pulling out more vials of Moonfrost and even though I know I should disappear, to end this, I still grin, unable to refuse, and take one vial for myself, the powerful rush clouding my brain before we’re out, dancing together, the smoke twirling itself into impossible shapes around us. We are lost in the infinity of delirium, the burning inside of us too powerful to let it go.

It’s almost morning by the time we’re stumbling to Wood’s hotel, still too high to Apparate or give a fuck about who might see us together. Wood practically carries me through the dark streets of Hexenheim, only parts of it lit up with a medley of floating candles, small fires, fairy lights and hovering light bubbles in various colours, faint sounds of music wafting in from behind closed doors, a couple of centaurs drinking outside of a bar, unsuccessfully trying to dance, too drunk for any kind of coordinated movement and I’m laughing so much that my cheeks hurt.

Wood puts a hand over my mouth while we pass them, his eyes twinkling. “Almost brawling with centaurs…,” he says softly, trying not to laugh and in that moment I feel something uncoiling inside me, a trickle of unfamiliar feelings spreading their cloying poison through my heart.

Wood’s room is the penthouse on the last floor of the Corona, probably the poshest hotel in Berlin, but I don’t have time to look around before Wood throws me on the bed with a smirk, almost ripping my dress off, licking my tits and kissing the inside of my thighs, dragging his teeth along my skin and his tongue leaving my mind blank as I cry out.

* * *

Wood takes out his pack of Ashwinders and lights one up, offering it to me. I take it, if only to have something to do, inhaling deeply and looking out the window at the rising dawn. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Wood, his passive mask back on, but I can still feel the tension radiating off him. I’m leaning against the railing of his balcony overlooking Hexenheim, a silk robe thrown carelessly over my naked body, the cold penetrating my bones. But none of it matters when I consider him.

I see where this is going, where it had already gone. Multiple times. I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek, unbidden and unwanted, and I take a drag from the cigarette, wiping the tear away. I need to leave. If I don’t, it’s going to be Wood who leaves  _ me _ .

I look around the room, all black and gold, and yet it doesn’t feel claustrophobic like I thought it would, being with him. I grab my dress which miraculously survived and put it back on while Wood watches in silence, just sitting on the bed, sprawled naked, and smoking.

And somehow, I am still drawn to him, I can’t bear his silence, his glare, his clenched jaw. I want him.  _ Fuck. _

“You’re leaving again,” he finally says, looking me in the eyes and something twists inside me. “So, what, I’m good enough to fuck, not good enough to date? Is that some of your fucking twisted logic, Freya?”

“You don’t even know me and this… It’s not happening. I didn’t think you’d care,” I mutter, avoiding his eyes, knowing deep down inside that maybe I’m saying all the wrong things. But I can’t stop myself now.

He straightens out and frowns. “You’re… I’ve never felt this. It’s different than with anyone... Fuck, did you use the Veela thing on me?” Wood asks, raising his voice and his growing anger palpable in the air, emanating from him.

His words twist a knife inside my heart and, for a moment, I can’t breathe. “I would never do that to someone without consent,” I say in a low voice, my hands shaking so badly that my bag drops to the floor. “How can you even think… You know what, fuck you!”

I turn on my heel and pick up the bag, starting towards the door but Wood suddenly springs out of bed and grabs my arm, twisting me around to face him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean that,” he says, and I want to believe him, but the fear I feel is too real for me to let it go.  _ Who would ever trust a Veela? _ I had already been burned.

“Stay,” he murmurs, burying his head in my hair, hugging me against him.

I have to blink a couple of times to stop the tears that are threatening to spill out, but finally, I manage to disentangle myself from Wood. I can’t lose myself in him like I already did. He will only break my heart.

“I have to go.”


	6. putting out fire with gasoline

The unnaturally vibrant neon colours and the sharp, mesmerizing music invade my senses as I dance in the crowd, slender arms wrapped around my waist, soft hands trailing a slick, sweaty path from my neck, between my tits, pinching a hard nipple through the thin fabric of my shimmering crop top, then lower, under the waistband of my tight jeans, the touch electric and enhanced, the Goldrush making my body tingle all over when finally, the teasing stops and I feel the rush of euphoria when Yael’s fingers rub against my clit, her mouth sucking on my neck as I gasp out, closing my eyes and arching my body, rubbing myself against her hand. I can feel her grin as her finger thrusts into me, her thumb still playing with my clit, maddeningly slow then fast, her other hand teasing my tits, rolling a nipple between fingers, and she bites down on my neck while she goes faster and deeper and I shudder as I come undone.

I turn around, feeling dizzy and disoriented, looking at Yael in wonder. The air around her is glowing bright gold and purple, her smile radiant, pupils dilated, tight white dress wrapped around her curves, neckline dipping low, leaving her irresistibly on display, her auburn hair standing out against the darkness of the industrial warehouse where we’ve been for hours, the party seemingly never-ending and I don’t even know whose party it is. Yael licks her fingers suggestively and I feel the emptiness inside me taking hold once again, the euphoria volatile and unpredictable, disappearing from my grasp just as swiftly as it came, and nothing compares to the high I had felt with the only person who made me come alive.

Wrapping my arms around her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, I pull Yael close, kissing her, tasting myself on her soft, full lips, her tongue playful and teasing, her touches light and sensual. And yet, I crave something more. Someone  _ else _ . Fuck.

“You okay?” she shouts over the music, steadying me when I didn’t even realise I was shaky. I nod once, plastering a smile on my face that doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t reach my eyes and I feel my chest tighten at the thought of the deep hollow feeling enveloping me.

I rummage around my bag, looking for the couple of vials Rhys gave me after I crashed at his a couple of nights ago, searching for something that I knew he couldn’t give me. But he was fit and good in bed, didn’t ask too many questions, and when I closed my eyes I could almost imagine he was someone else, could see someone else’s face, and that was almost enough.  _ Almost. _

Yael offers me a Wildfire shot with a wink and I take it, downing the drink, my fingers finally wrapping around the small glass vials, bottled delirium of Rhys’ own creation promising an instant relief from my fucked up mind. I give one to Yael, who kisses me before uncorking the vial and drinking the deep black potion, flecks of gold shining in the inky blackness. I welcome the slightly bitter taste of the potion, the rush of energy to my body and the way I stop thinking and there is just the feel of Yael’s skin on mine, the bright colours glowing all around us, the music like an electric current, incendiary, and when Yael takes my hand, her red lips drawn out in a wide smile, we’re suddenly dancing in the flames.

Time stops having any meaning and I don’t know how much of it passes before we stumble outside, Yael holding me up, both of us laughing at nothing, but I’m so thirsty, I feel like I will pass out. She shoves a bottle of water into my hand and we sit down on the concrete, people milling around, the blood-red moon hanging low in the night sky.

I drink the entire bottle in one go, damp hair sticking to the back of my neck, the wind making me shiver as I realise how cold it is. But none of it seems to matter when Yael puts two small vials of Moonfrost on the floor before us, the shiny crystals reflecting starlight and the redness of the moon.

She puts an arm around my neck, leaning close. “We do these, go to my flat and fuck each other’s brains out,” she whispers in my ear before kissing my collarbone, licking the sensitive skin, her other hand on my thigh, inching higher with each kiss.

And I don’t want to come down, don’t want to embrace the inevitable just yet. So I turn my head slightly, smirk at her and grab one of the vials, open it, don’t bother with lines, just inhale from the vial, closing my eyes for a moment, waiting for that high of the beautiful, sparkling nothingness.

When I open my eyes, Yael’s face is in front of me, her pupils immense, reflecting my own, and I grab her head, crashing my lips on hers, desperate for the electrifying touch of the drug. She leans away, smiling when she takes my hand and I feel the pull of Apparition. Moments later, we’re in her bedroom and I pull down her dress, fingers fumbling slightly, legs unsteady, but soon she’s naked and I’m pushing her on the bed, licking her hard nipples, my hand going down, and she’s already wet when I touch her, her back arching when I trail kisses down her abdomen to her clit, licking, hand travelling higher to grab her tits, and Yael writhes underneath me, loud moans reverberating around the room as she buries her hands in my hair.

And when she comes, cursing loudly, I still don’t feel anything except the need for my own release.

Yael sighs as she perches herself on her forearms, looking down at me. “You’re not naked,” she says in a breathless voice, and in seconds we’re kissing again, her hands tearing off my clothes, touching all the right places and my body surrenders to this mercurial descent into darkness.

* * *

I wake up to a massive headache, damp sheets tangled around me. It takes me a while of lying there, staring at the ceiling, to remember where I am, chaotic flashes of last night replaying what happened. I groan and turn on my side, looking at Yael next to me. Her naked body reveals how rough we got last night and I don’t even have to spare a glance at myself to know I’ve got it worse.

And even though it’s been two months after I left Wood in Berlin, I’m still trying to fill the hole he left. The hole I created. Doing whatever the fuck I can to forget how he smiles like a devil and how he tastes like something I didn’t know I loved until we kissed for the first time.

I close my burning eyes, the wetness sliding down my cheeks and I don’t know if I’m crying because my head and my entire body hurt or because of my heart.

Yael stirs, stretching out like a cat before she opens her eyes, her makeup ruined, much like my own. She sees me looking at her and grimaces, hands massaging her temples. “Fuck me, this is worse than that time we tried the Muggle stuff,” Yael says. “Shouldn’t have mixed it,” she murmurs between groans. “Good thing we’ve got no photoshoots scheduled this month, I don’t know how the fuck I’d survive.”

Mentally I agree, though I can’t find the strength to verbalise my thoughts, so I just close my eyes and try to ignore the pain. I feel Yael getting up, but thankfully she doesn’t open the curtains.

Something small settles on top of me and I crack an eye open to see it’s another vial, though the colour is a familiar hue of a hangover potion. Yael grins as she stands before me, still naked but in a decidedly better mood. She must’ve taken it already. My hands shake as I uncork the vial and drink the potion greedily, eyes roving all over Yael’s body, but I’m so tired that I don’t even manage to make a passing comment before falling back on the soft mattress and closing my eyes again.

An owl hooting wakes me up again, though this time at least my headache is gone but I still feel shaky and weak. I sit up in bed, looking out the now visible window, only to realise it must be late afternoon by the way the sun shines in the west. Yael is sitting in an armchair, reading a letter, while her owl eats treats on the coffee table. Yael looks up from the letter when she realises I’m awake, quirking an amused eyebrow at me.

“Finally. I thought you’d died at some point,” she says, laughing, “That’d be a shame, you’re probably the best I’ve had lately.”

“At least something I’m good at,” I murmur, feeling uncharacteristically self-deprecating.

“That’s just the comedown talking. I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,” Yael says teasingly, waving the letter with a wicked smile. “I’ve got a friend from Hogwarts who’s a big shot with the Couture Nocturne, and they’re having an event tonight at The Nymph so he invited me. Told me to bring friends.”

I groan, not really sure I’m able to get out of bed, let alone attend an event. “And what are we supposed to do at this… Event?” I ask, looking at my nails, thinking they need an update. I’ve gotten bored of the forest green nail polish. 

“Walk around in a dress that doesn’t cover much, say nothing meaningful and, most importantly, look fucking gorgeous and let rich people fuck us with their eyes. It’s for charity, and you know how guys get a lot more generous when there’s someone to impress,  _ especially Veelas _ ,” Yael smirks. She’s not wrong. “There’s going to be free booze. And other stuff, if I know Roger…”

“Fine, but I’ll need something to keep me up, I don’t think I can stand.”

Yael waves her wand, summoning a wooden box from somewhere in the flat. She opens it, takes out a small bag filled with white powder, and grins at me. “I think I’ve got you covered.”

She helps me get into the shower, and I let the water wash over me in scalding hot waves, easing the pain in my muscles slightly and by the time it turns cold, I feel slightly less like an undead person. I borrow Yael’s bathrobe and wrap my hair in a towel, walking out into the living room barefoot. She’s drinking coffee and reading the  _ Daily Prophet _ . “Can you lend me a dress? I don’t think I’ve got anything clean at my flat and I don’t really want to make the trip only to get dressed.”

“Yeah, grab whatever you want from the closet.”

Her closet is filled with clothes from shows we’ve done, and I rummage around until I find a dark red dress that I like.

“Good choice,” Yael says, watching me as she leans against the doorframe. “You’ll look smoking in that.”

It doesn’t take us long to get ready, being a model has its perks when it comes to beauty spells, and Yael’s secret stash does the job of making us both seem functional, newfound energy making this morning seem like a distant memory.

I finish putting on my crimson red lipstick, a hue that goes well with the dress and my new nails, courtesy of Yael, and as I look at myself in the mirror, I  _ almost  _ don’t notice that my eyes are still blank. I blink a couple of times and draw my eyes away from the reflection, ignoring everything it means. I put on a smile and take Yael’s hand, and before I can say anything, we’re in the lobby of The Nymph.

There’s plenty of people already there, all of them dressed fancy, and we follow an older couple in the direction of the event space. I glance at the floating banner to see it’s a charity event for orphaned kids during the war.

Yael shows the invitation to the witch at the door and she waves her wand, two golden stripes appearing on both our wrists. A waiter immediately walks over, gawking at us while we take the glasses filled with champagne from his tray. I sip on the drink, when a tall handsome guy with slicked-back brown hair comes over.

“Cohen!” he exclaims and Yael turns towards him with a wide smile. “You came and…,” the guy looks at me, cheeks flushed red, “You brought a friend.”

Yael kisses him on both cheeks. “Of course I did. Roger, this is my friend Freya Johansen, she works for Daphne.”

Roger offers to shake my hand and I admire the fact that he hasn’t gone completely mute. “Roger Davies,” he introduces himself and I flash him a smile.

“Thanks for inviting us,” I say, drinking more champagne.

Roger waves his hand like it’s nothing, “Oh please, you’re doing me a favour. Yael, you won’t believe who’s here, I was just talking to him, wait right here…” he trails off, disappearing in the crowd.

“He seems nice,” I say, raising an eyebrow at Yael and she smirks.

“He is. Most of the time. He’s useful, though, plenty of connections.”

I nod, my glass now half empty and Roger’s voice comes from behind us. “Ah, Yael’s here, see, she was in Ravenclaw with me, I’m not sure you’d remember her, a year below me, and this is her friend…”

Yael and I turn around and time stops, everything stops, my breath catching in my throat and I feel like a thousand knives slash at my heart. Oliver Wood is standing there with a smirk on his face, his arm wrapped around the waist of a gorgeous brunette. Nobody seems to notice the way we look at each other, nobody seems to notice that I’m not breathing, that my pulse is racing, heart beating so fast that it feels like it’s going to come out of my chest.

Roger, oblivious to the tension like everyone else, grins at us all. “Yael, Freya, let me introduce you to Oliver Wood and his fiancée, Octavia Blackthorn.”


	7. she does what the night does to the day

I down the champagne while Yael shakes hands with the pair, and all the while I stare at Wood. I force my breathing back to normal, my pulse to stop racing and I smile, my insides freezing and heart turning cold as ice at the sight of the huge ring on Octavia’s hand. There is no fucking way I will let him win this. Not when I can’t seem to get him out of my head, not when I still see his face while fucking someone else.

With a cold smile, I raise an eyebrow at Wood, taking another glass from a passing waiter instead of introducing myself. “We know each other,” I say, sipping on Dom Pérignon, playing the perfect game of pretend, as if I'm not actually a volatile black hole inside the seemingly flawless exterior.

“Oh, you do?” Octavia asks, smiling up at Wood, whose jaw is clenched, though I don’t think she notices.

Wood grins nonchalantly, finishing his glass. “Barely.” 

“Right, right, you two did that shoot together a couple of months ago,” Roger exclaims, apparently only now realising who I am, eyes flitting between me and Wood, and I can already sense the wheels turning in his head. “It was quite something, there were rumours, of course, but there are always…”

“Right,” I say, interrupting him, and I put my hand on his shoulder, successfully shutting him up. “Just rumours.” I wink at Wood and feel the deep enjoyment that comes when he looks away, unable to hold my gaze. This, I am certain everyone notices.

Yael catches my eye and smirks, taking Roger’s hand in her own. “Roger, you know how journalists  _ love _ to create scandals,” she says.

Roger laughs, shaking his head, “Don’t remind me, I’m still fixing that mess from Liverpool, but I’m sure Octavia knows even better than I.”

Octavia rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her drink, “I swear to Merlin, the press will be the death of my father, they’ve been speculating about the latest transfer from the Wimbourne Wasps and hounding him about it, as if the owner of Puddlemere hasn’t got anything better to do than to feed their…”

Wood salutes me from behind her back, a devilish smirk playing on his face, but I keep myself under control, still pretending to listen to Octavia’s rant with a neutral expression, occasionally humming my agreement at appropriate times, even though I would much rather wipe that smirk off his face. He’s marrying the daughter of Puddlemere’s owner and I can’t help but bitterly think how typical that is. She’s quite the catch.  _ Why the fuck am I feeling like this? _

Roger disentangles himself from Yael, slightly flushed but quick to compose himself. The man has an admirable amount of self-control because the design of Yael’s dress means that she, like I, is definitely on full display. “I have to mingle, and well…,” he looks meaningfully at Yael and me, which is our cue to start flirting and let people eye fuck us for the greater good. 

Yael loops her arm through mine and, with one last look into Wood’s eyes, I turn towards the rest of the guests with her, still feeling the burn of his glare at the back of my neck. I bare my teeth like a wolf, enjoying the angry whispering I hear from behind me. Octavia might have pretended not to notice anything while we were all together, but I certainly wasn’t trying to be too subtle. And if there is something I am good at, it is sowing discord and creating chaos.

The Nymph Grove, though called by everyone as just The Nymph, a historical wizarding location, an old manor that used to belong to an extinct pureblood line with an old enchanted grove in the back situated in the wizarding part of Belgravia, is decorated in white and gold, enchanted trees shimmering with scented fairy lights, the high vaulted ceiling echoing the night sky, dimmed stars reflected in the conjured pond at the centre of this bewitched amalgam of forest and castle, and there is a small stream meandering between tables, encircling the stage where the band is playing.

I stroll through the large hall with Yael, our faces perfect masks of bland smiles and flirtatious looks, and my Veela heritage means that  _ everyone looks _ . The guests are a motley collection of high-ranking Ministry officials, media moguls, popular celebrities, businessmen of dubious reputation, old money purebloods, Gringotts goblins, their rivals, the LeFay banking family, and, of course, Quidditch players with their team managers and owners. The backdrop is recognisable but yet again, I find myself distracted. There’s no rush of excitement that I usually feel at these events, playing the people I meet, no satisfaction in knowing which buttons to push.

We stop next to a standing table and my eyes once again find Wood, staring at me from across the crowded space, the expression on his face unreadable.

“If you really want to make Wood jealous,  _ he _ is the perfect choice,” Yael murmurs, discreetly nodding towards a tall, muscular guy in a fitted suit at a table not far from us, surrounded by a group of businessmen. He catches me staring and smirks, a couple of loose strands of blonde hair falling into his eyes as he laughs at something one of the men says.

I grab another glass of champagne from one of the waiters, taking a sip before looking back at Yael. “And why’s that?”

Yael raises her eyebrows and smiles wickedly. “You really need to start following Quidditch. That’s Raphaël Perrault, the Keeper for Ballycastle Bats and the French National Team...and Wood’s biggest rival. To say that they don’t like each other would be an understatement.”

“You’re right, it seems I  _ should  _ follow Quidditch.” I start walking towards Raphaël’s table but Yael reaches out and catches me around the wrist.

“Freya, wait. Do you have… Why are you doing this?” she asks, an undercurrent of worry in her lilting voice.

I smile, baring my teeth, quieting the traitorous pang of hurt when I think about Wood and his fiancée, not wanting Yael to know how fucked up and twisted I get just thinking about him. It’s fucking stupid.

“Because I can,” I say instead. “And because I don’t like to lose.”

I leave her standing there, knowing she’ll soon find her own fun and Roger will be grateful, but I have lost interest in being _just_ a pretty face at this party from the moment I first saw Wood. I still feel his eyes on me as I make my way towards Raphaël, who is now completely ignoring his companions. Smiling, I don’t miss how he can’t seem to look away. _Men are_ _so fucking_ _easy_.

Some of the people around him leave the table and I take their place, sidling up to him and setting the glass of champagne on the table.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Raphaël says in a faint French accent, his voice deep and husky.

I grin and take a drink from my glass before answering. “You’d remember if we had.”

“I don’t doubt that. I’m Raphaël,” he smiles, shaking my hand, his blue eyes distractingly bright.

I lick my lips as his eyes flit between my face and my body, enjoying the attention. “Freya.”

“And what do you do, Freya?” Raphaël murmurs, waving at a waiter who brings an entire bottle of Serpentgin. We’re in Wood’s line of vision and I feel my neck burning from his stare.

I put a hand on top of Raphaël’s arm and smirk up at him. “I’m a model.”

He flashes me a charming smile, though for all his good looks, I don’t feel anything. “Makes sense. You are a Veela.”

The desire to roll my eyes is strong, but I keep myself in check and look up at him behind half-closed eyes. “And you are observant.” He smirks at that, moving closer to me and putting an arm around my waist.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” he whispers into my ear, leaning over me, “I’ve got one of the rooms on the upper floor. We can get out of here,” he continues and all the while Wood is looking at us, his dark eyes boring into my own. Octavia is next to him, and I recognise Puddlemere’s owner, her father, but Wood only has eyes for me. I grind back against Raphaël slightly and smirk over the rim of my glass.

The band starts playing a livelier song, the tune familiar, and it’s the perfect opportunity.

“How about we dance first?” I ask and turn towards Raphaël, my back against the table. He grins and leans over my shoulder, planting a kiss at the crook of my neck before taking his glass behind me. He leans away and downs the Serpentgin, his eyes darker now, the deep blue flashing in the dim lights of the hall.

“Of course,” he says, and he leads me towards the dance floor, straight past Wood’s table and I know I’ve struck a match within him, his eyes flashing with jealousy. Wood watches us as Raphaël pulls me flush with his body and we dance in the haze of the faint mist that surrounds us, enticing our bodies to move together. Raphaël is a good dancer and when he puts his hand lower I let him, enjoying the sensation even when my eyes are locked with Wood’s. I’m more enjoying the fact that he’s watching us and the way his jaw is clenched than anything Raphaël is doing to me.

We dance for a while until I get bored and tired, another comedown closing in and I need something to keep me going, last night catching up with me fast, and I drag Raphaël back to his table. He doesn’t seem to mind and I know he’s expecting us to go up to his room.

Roger is at the table, and I raise my eyebrows at him as he looks me over. “Mr Perrault!” he exclaims, a wide smile on his face. “I see you’re enjoying yourself.”

I lean against the table, ignoring the rest of the people standing around it, not seeing their faces, my vision slightly blurry.

“Freya is keeping me in good company,” Raphaël says and laughs. I roll my eyes while he’s not paying attention and lean over to Roger.

“Yael mentioned you might have something for me,” I whisper, hoping she wasn’t wrong, otherwise I might pass out in the middle of The Nymph. Roger frowns but nods, discreetly putting a small vial filled with the silvery-white powder into my open palm. I sigh with relief, planning to excuse myself and go to the loo, but at that moment, my vision is filled with the towering presence of Oliver Wood. His fiancée is nowhere to be seen.

“Perrault,” he says, and there’s a twinge of annoyance in his voice.

Raphaël nods at Wood, smirking. “Wood. How’s your shoulder?”

I see Wood tense up and clench his fists. “My shoulder is fine. How’s your groin?”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Roger starts, filling up their glasses with Firewhisky. “All of this is just friendly competition, and we’re all here for a good cause. How about we all have a drink?” Roger looks around, his eyes settling on me, and suddenly both Wood and Raphaël are looking at me as well.

I nod with a smile, my mind fuzzy, but they don’t seem to notice. Roger pushes a glass towards me and raises his own. “To you,” he says, and we all drink, the alcohol burning me from inside, warming me up and the coldness that started enveloping me is kept at bay for a moment.

There’s a shuffle of people, a couple of goblins coming our way, straight for Raphaël and with them walks a man I hadn’t hoped to see. I internally scream, desperately wanting to get away, but I’m surrounded and I have to keep up my facade. The goblins start talking to Raphaël and his manager who appeared seemingly out of nowhere, while the man looks me over with a critical eye.

“Roger, my good man, I wasn’t aware you’d stooped so low to invite… Whores to your events. I might’ve reconsidered coming,” he says, sipping on straight vodka with a calm face.

Both Wood and Roger tense up next to me, but I shake my head at them.

“Hello, father. Fancy seeing you here,” I say in a cold voice. Roman Avery, the man who left us when I was six, and only occasionally appeared in our lives, him and my mother like two combustible fireballs when in each other’s vicinity. He’s also one rich bastard, owning half the properties in wizarding London.

He sneers at me, “You’re no daughter of mine,  _ Veela _ . Just an unnatural whore, like your fucking mother.”

And even though I’ve heard those words numerous times in my life, they still fucking hurt like a thousand knives stabbing me in the heart.

Wood takes a step toward him and my father just laughs. “You should reconsider what you’re about to do because I can destroy your career, Oliver Wood. And this...  _ Thing _ is not worth it, believe me. Has she put you under her spell?”

“Mr Avery –” Roger trails off, at a loss on what to say, and he takes a step back when he realises that Wood is not backing down.

I grab Wood’s hand before he can take a swing at my father, digging my nails into the hard skin of his forearm. “Don’t,” I say in a low voice and Wood turns to look at me, the expression on his face one of absolute fury. I let go of his arm, take my bag, and walk away without looking back at the group.

It takes an unnatural amount of self-control not to break into a run in the middle of the crowd, but due to all the years of learning how to survive in a world bent on breaking me just for being who I am, I manage to calmly walk through the enchanted forest trees, the semi-darkness now seeming sinister instead of magical. I reach the glass door that leads to the outside, to the ancient grove, and I push them open with a force that makes the glass rattle, gulping down the fresh air greedily.

I lean against the wall of The Nymph, the cold stone feeling comforting on my burning skin and I realise I’m still clutching the vial that Roger gave me. I bring it before my eyes, staring into the comforting abyss that the powder offers, the euphoria I know will follow, the numbness coming after, the outside world not having any meaning and there is no question in my mind when I uncork the vial with a smile.

“Don’t,” a gruff voice says, and I look up, my grip on the vial faltering. Wood is standing before me, rubbing his jaw. “Your father is a dick.”

“I don’t need you to defend me,” I say, my words cutting like sharp steel through the night air.

Wood frowns, coming closer, and the scent of him is achingly familiar, my body involuntarily responding to the closeness, and I look away. “I’m not like him,” he says, taking another step towards me, trapping me against the wall.

“Yeah, right. Didn’t you say the same things?” I say. “Listen, Wood, you can just leave, I don’t want your pity and I certainly –”

I don’t finish the sentence because his hot lips are on mine, and the taste of him feels like coming home, my body instinctively arching into his. Wood bites lightly on my bottom lip and leans back slightly, our breaths mixing in the cold air, the flames spreading all over my body.

“You’re engaged,” I whisper but he doesn’t say anything, his eyes full of sin as he kisses me again in the darkness, licking my neck, hands gripping my hips roughly, and he flips me over, pinning me up against the wall, pulling at my hair and bending my head back. I feel his cock straining against his trousers, rubbing against my ass, and his hand is already under my dress, tearing my knickers down, and when he touches me I’m already wet.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he murmurs against the bare skin of my back, fingers teasingly playing with my clit and I let out an undignified moan, hips bucking against his hand, begging for more, my hands clutching at the wall for support.

Wood groans, his thumb rubbing my clit, one finger inside me but it’s not enough. He puts a hand around my neck, and the pressure sends a jolt of pleasure through me. I reach back, rubbing his cock through the hard fabric, fumbling with his belt and zipper until finally, I touch the soft skin, stroking him slowly, and he whispers a curse.

His fingers are rubbing faster and I feel myself on the brink of coming but I want him inside me, though Wood seems intent on teasing me and he stops, sucking on the skin just below my ear. I move against him. “Are you close?” he asks, even though he fucking  _ knows _ , and I nod, my breaths coming out fast and shallow, my head feeling like explosions are happening inside my brain.

“Fuck, yes,” I whisper and I can feel him smirking.

He lightly touches my clit again, his other hand playing with my nipples and I close my eyes, biting my lip. Wood bites down on my shoulder, his hips grinding against my ass. “I want you to beg,” he says and I didn’t think it was possible but I get even more turned on.

“Oliver,  _ please…  _ I need you inside me,” I gasp out, reaching back again but he stops me, pinning my hands above my head with one hand, his body flush with mine. He pushes my dress up around my hips and I finally feel him rubbing his cock against my wet pussy, slowly, torturously. “Stop teasing me, please…” I whimper and he kisses my neck, pushing inside me and it’s like I’ve taken the vial, pure euphoria coursing through my veins as he goes faster and harder, his grip on me tightening, leaving bruises on the pale skin as we come undone together, pulses racing, our moans drowned out in the music coming from The Nymph.

Wood holds me against the wall while we recover, both of us breathing hard, and I briefly wonder what would’ve happened if someone walked out and saw us. But we got lucky. I pull the dress down to cover myself and turn towards Wood, who just finished buckling his belt. He looks at me with a smile.

“What are you smiling for?” I ask, remembering Octavia, remembering the rest of this cursed evening, expecting him to disappear the moment we’re finished. I should’ve just taken that stupid vial and avoided the pain I know will come. I look back at him and he’s still smiling.

“You called me Oliver.”


	8. we'll be the broken lovers

My skin burns as he touches me, hand trailing up over my thigh, under my dress and he hits just the right spot. Back hitting against a gilded mirror, I don’t feel the pain with my legs spread out as Oliver-fucking-Wood grabs me by the hair and thrusts into me, the flames on my skin spreading to my insides. I scratch at his back, leaving marks under his half undone dress shirt and he lets out a low growl, going faster and deeper and I forget everything except the feel of his skin on mine.

Oliver kisses along my collarbone, up my neck, trailing thunderstorms on my skin with each kiss, and I moan loudly, the noise echoing in the empty entrance hall, and it feels like I’m falling from the precipice into a beautiful, radiant abyss, lost in his touch, the twinkle in his eyes and the way his lips feel when he breathes out my name into my skin.

He looks down at me, hands tangled in my hair, keeping me still against him, chest rising and falling rapidly as I come down from the incredible high of being with him and he kisses me, lips absurdly soft, our hearts beating together loudly in the silence of his house. Oliver apparated us here straight from The Nymph, ignoring my half-hearted protests. We didn’t make it farther than the entrance before Oliver started kissing me.

I can’t help but smile, and it’s the first smile that reaches my eyes in months, maybe years. I’ve been lost in the darkness of my mind, the secrets and lies, the deep fear I’ve felt since I was a kid watching my father destroy us all.

“Hey,” Oliver says and grins at me, but before I can say anything he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, his back red with the marks I left and I smirk. One victory won.

“You’re an idiot,” I say between bouts of laughter but there’s no force behind it and I don’t mind being manhandled, my brain overdosed on the strange tendrils of happiness engulfing me, temporarily ignoring the traitorous thoughts of borrowed time. 

He casually walks up the stairs, holding me firmly, my dress lying forgotten on the floor of the hall, tangled with Oliver’s clothes and I laugh again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before,” Oliver says, as he throws me down on his king-sized bed, and I stretch out like a cat, a half-smile playing on my lips. “It’s…,” he starts and blushes before he turns away from me and leans against a big window overlooking a forest. “It’s nice.”

I barely hear him, he says it so softly, but I do and I can’t help but laugh at him again. “I didn’t know you were so… sappy. Big Quidditch star, ultimate fuckboy Oliver Wood, blushing like a teenage boy,” I finish and he faces me again, rolling his eyes. It’s fun to tease him. In two strides he climbs up on the bed, leaning over me, eyes dark and mesmerizingly addictive.

“You,” he says, kissing me on the lips, “need to stop,” another kiss, this one on my jawbone, his hand creeping up and holding my arms above me, other hand lightly trailing over my ribs, brushing my tits, like lightning against my skin, and I arch my back into him before he speaks again. “Calling me a fuckboy,” his voice sounds breathless now as I roll my hips beneath him and bite my lip. He’s already hard and I love to make him lose control. Oliver lets out a growl before we’re lost in the wildfire that we started, a fucking thunderstorm of skin against skin, his lips around my hard nipples, and I’m so fucking wet and turned on I can’t stifle my scream when he enters me, burning down our hearts, like two shadows twisting around each other before we come undone, moaning against each other in shallow breaths.

Moonlight shines brightly down on us as we sit up against the headboard of the bed, Oliver’s sheets crumpled on the floor and he grabs his smokes, lighting up, his other hand firmly around my shoulders, and the gesture is so familiar I automatically reach out to take the cigarette from his lips. It tastes sweet and spicy.

We smoke in comfortable silence, Oliver tracing a pattern over my shoulder, and I take in his room, which is, like the rest of his house, big and luxurious and bright, something I wouldn’t have expected from him, but Oliver seems full of surprises right now, and I slowly feel the vision of him I had in my head unravelling. He can be soft and he’s bright and there’s mischief in his eyes that twinkle when he laughs.

And maybe I knew all this before, but damn, it was so much easier when he was just a Quidditch fuckboy. 

“I missed you,” Oliver murmurs, breaking the silence.

It might be true. It might be a lie, I can’t tell anymore, what’s real, what’s in my head, what I want to be real. A shiver passes through me, despite the heat radiating off of Oliver’s body.

“It’s not like we spent that much time together,” I reply after a while, sarcasm seeping into my words even though I don’t want them to be true, but somehow, I can’t stop myself from thinking this is fleeting, my mind racing, thoughts running toward that ring on Octavia’s finger, how they fit together in a way the two of us never will.

“Well, I don’t know if anyone ever told you this, but you’re fucking amazing in bed so…”

I playfully hit him in the shoulder and he grins. “What? No praise for me? I'm offended,” he says, pretending to be hurt.

“I think I need to do more research on the topic…” I trail off, twisting a strand of hair around my finger.

“Oh, you do, do you? In that case –” I don’t let him finish before I sit up and kiss him, slowly this time, and when I straddle him, I catch sight of the two of us in the mirror across his bed. We look fucking hot together.

* * *

I don’t sleep. Instead, just before the crack of dawn, I crawl out of bed, careful not to disturb Oliver, open his closet to find some old joggers and a Puddlemere sweatshirt that’s too big for me, but it smells of Oliver and it’s warm and that seems to be enough for now.

I tiptoe out of the room and walk down the stairs, appreciating the absolute silence, something my small flat in the always busy, but especially during the night, Knockturn Alley can never afford. I enter the living room and there’s a piano there, just next to the fireplace, which makes me raise my eyebrows. Oliver didn’t strike me as a piano player and with a sharp pang I wonder if it might be Octavia’s. I shake my head, hoping I’ll manage to shake off my depressing thoughts, and I walk out into the backyard opening up to the forest Oliver was looking at from his bedroom.

The grass is soft and the night isn’t too cold, and I wish it were. The cold would help me clear my head, make sense of what I’m doing here, but I’m left alone with my thoughts and that’s never been a good idea.

I walk for what seems an age, aimlessly, but tempted, so fucking tempted to go back, grab my wand and apparate away. I’m not sure what I want, I’m not sure I trust him, I’m not sure of fucking anything anymore, except the way he makes me feel and my heart breaks a little at the way I’m on the brink of escaping once again. Self-destructive to the core, my mother would say, as if I’d ever been anything else, as if I can control it, the recklessness and the running and the endless darkness inside my head. I feel alive, for a while, and then I fade away into grey nothingness that seeps into my bones, terrible numbness that clutches me in its grasp, and when I can’t deal with myself anymore, it’s easier to run and forget and fuck and forget and never look back.

I blink a couple of times and realise I’m back where I started, dawn breaking and the low sun shining down on the big glass double doors of Oliver’s living room that I left wide open, and I already know I’ll sneak in, take my clothes, my bag with my wand and I’ll leave and that will be the end of this madness.

Some part of me knew this was our last night, the mad part that let loose the happiness I’m not used to and now it’s closing me off, and I steel myself for what I must do.

I enter the house, closing the doors behind me, but as I’m about to leave, I catch sight of the photographs above the fireplace, and I stop to look at them. There’s two of Oliver and his parents, but all the rest of them are a much younger Oliver and a girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with the same dark hair and the twinkle in her eyes, the same as Oliver’s. The similarity between them is astounding and she has to be his sister. She and Oliver are grinning in all the photographs, playing Quidditch together in a lot of them, zooming on brooms like two dragons conquering an army.

There are no new photos. In all of them, Oliver is just a kid and his sister a teenager.

“She died,” a deep voice says behind me and I’m startled. I didn’t hear him come down and I mentally curse myself for stopping, for wondering about his family, about him, for wanting to know him. I put the picture I’m holding back to its place and turn around. I’m even more surprised to see him standing there in his own joggers and a sweatshirt, holding a plate with toast and freshly made pancakes on it, the scent of them overpowering my senses. _He made fucking pancakes._

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking slightly as the deep hurt on his face becomes fully visible. He doesn’t even try to hide it, not like he usually hides his feelings, face often unreadable except when he loses control. And I’m about to hurt him even more.

“Skye was… She was wild and free and she loved flying and one day she flew in very bad weather after an argument she had with our parents and… She fell. No reason, no... nothing. The Healers couldn’t do anything for her,” Oliver says in a low voice, setting the plate down on the coffee table. “We were close.”

“I can tell. I’m really sorry, I had no idea,” I say, knowing it’s not enough. Nothing would be enough.

“It’s… It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” In the dim light of dawn, he seems so vulnerable and I can barely move, but I take a step towards the entrance hall and Oliver looks up, a slight frown forming on his face.

“Why do you always leave?” he asks, standing up and coming towards me and I take a step back.

I’m silent as he stares at me, and I have to look away, tears prickling in my eyes as all the things that passed through my head on the walk back here make their rounds again and again and again, like endless knives tearing at my heart.

“You’re engaged,” I whisper, but he shakes his head at that, a stupid half-smile playing on his lips and I feel weak in the knees, weak in the heart and weak in the head.

“I wasn’t with anyone when we met and you still left me. In London, in Berlin… And now. Freya –” he starts but I don’t let him continue, fearing he’d make me change my mind, make me forget all the things I know are true about myself, all the things I’ve spent years knowing and fighting and always… Always fucking losing the battles against myself.

“God, Oliver! You… You’ve got a fucking future, a life and… And me? I’ll be the hot thing on the market for a year, maybe two, then I’ll fade away, most likely involve myself in a scandal, like fucking England’s star Quidditch player while he’s engaged to Octavia-fucking-Blackthorn! I’m a fucking mess, Oliver, can’t you see that? I ruin everything I touch, like fucking Helen of Troy! I can’t deal with… With the demons in my head... And do you know what it means to be a Veela? How does it feel to not have anyone trust you? To have them hate you just because you exist? I’ve been dealing with that since the moment I was old enough to know my own father hated me. Fucking hell, it’s just easier to fuck off and get fucking high and not think about anything!” I yell out, shaking, not from anger, but sadness, and the look in Oliver’s eyes seems to be mirroring my own.

He reaches out to take my hand, but I flinch away from him. Something flashes in his eyes, maybe hurt and anger, maybe something else I’ve never seen before but I can’t let myself wonder, can’t let myself think it might be anything other than anger.

“You’ll never fade,” he says in that Scottish drawl I’ve grown to love and I feel a tear running down my cheek. “Not for me.”

I want to scream and I want to tear at my skin and my heart and make myself stay but I turn away from him, his dark gaze unbearably intense and I feel like he’s giving up on me, on us. “Goodbye, Oliver.”

I walk away, picking up my clothes and my bag, tears falling on the dark blue carpet, but before I can open the doors of his house, before I can leave forever, Oliver grabs my arm and twists me around, pressing me against his body, dark eyes sparkling in that same way they did when we first met. Those eyes would be my downfall.

He kisses me then, softly, his lips feeling electric on my own, and he tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling me even closer, so close that there’s no space left between us. It feels like when I’m with him, when he kisses me and when he smiles, the darkness is just out of reach, a mere echo of danger.

“I want you to ruin me.”


End file.
